Songs for the Broken
by Leaflette
Summary: [AU] After Aragorn suffers an accident with horrendous results, someone must help him gather the strength to go on with his life.
1. Scene One: The Fall

Songs for the Broken  


After Aragorn suffers an accident with horrendous results, someone must help him find the strength to go on with his life. This is pretty AU, as you can tell.

**Scene One: The Fall**

_And since you know you cannot see yourself,  
so well as by reflection, I, your glass,  
will modestly discover to yourself,  
that of yourself which you yet know not of._

William Shakespeare

* * *

He'd had no idea how long he had fallen; indeed, he'd had no idea he was falling until he

shattered on the ground into what felt like a thousand pieces. Time had slowed to a stop and now started up again at a horrendously fast rate all at once.

Air sluggishly filled his lungs as he tried to breathe normally—the pain was so intense that he could barely comprehend his surroundings. His eyelids barely opened, and he was fondly greeted by a world that tilted from side to side and faded in and out of shadow like a candle in the wind. The candle blew out.

He fell again in the darkness, reaching out for a ghost's hand. No one came. No one desired to come. He was alone, he was dead, the wind would slowly carry his broken body away to lie in peace, but it would take years.

His thoughts raced. He groped for a hand again. He thought of Arwen, who loved him, found her light in the bitter darkness and clung to it when the shadows reared up to seize him once more.

And he fell.


	2. Scene Two: The Awakening

**Scene Two: The Awakening**

_Things do not change. We change._  
Henry David Thoreau

* * *

His eyelids opened, but not quite all the way, as though they were not prepared for what they might see. And of course, they were in no way ready to glimpse the truth of what reality had bitterly thrown out before him. His eyes were much wiser than he was, and they fell closed only a moment after witnessing the hazy air of a small room around him.

He was not dead. This much he could comprehend. In fact, he was lying in bed; he realized a moment before sleep claimed him once more.

Hours later, he waged war against his eyes, battling them for freedom of vision. Cold hands were on him as he wildly wondered where he was, why he was there, what had happened. Fever came to ally his eyes and he drowned in molten feeling.

He had terrible dreams—he was lost again in darkness, bitterness eating at his heart. Something was wrong. Something was so deeply wrong that he could not fathom it or its consequences in the heart of his delirium. He saw his love, but he did not have the strength to hold her. It terrified him. He ran.

He ran far, fast, without falling. He saw too much and yet not enough at all. He was desperate and without care. He did not understand, but something in the very back of his mind whispered that it would be better not to.

Fever broke, sweat cooled, softer sleep overtook him. He was soothed gently in the hands of some mystic, of some ancient powers of spirit that cradled him and whispered that everything would be fine, and he was certain he was being called away to the Halls of Mandos.

When the time came to do battle with his eyes once more, he found that they surrendered to his obvious prowess and wisdom in the face of bitterness. They opened, and he saw sunlight streaming in through a window.

A young girl, perhaps thirteen, was grinding something sweet-smelling in a mortar and pestle over in the corner next to the opening of sun. She heard him stir and looked up through masses of red hair.

"Oh! My lord, you waken," she exclaimed in a hushed voice, putting down her concoction and hurriedly standing up to come to his bedside.

He opened his mouth, and words dragged themselves from his throat.

"Where…am I?"

"At Edoras, milord, an eored…found you…." she answered, her face darkening.

Something did not feel right. There was a great emotion in her eyes, a feeling he was not used to seeing being directed at him.

Pity. Sympathy.

"Are you…a fighting man, my lord?" she asked, her voice almost trembling.

"I am called Strider, and am a ranger from the northern lands." His voice was coming easier now to accompany the ragged racing of his heart.

"Then…oh…I am sorry," she whispered, staring down at the bed.

He looked to the left side of him. He couldn't quite move his foot, it was most likely broken, but his knee felt all right. He went through the muscles of the left side until he discovered he could not move the fingers of his left hand. He could not move them at all. There were no bandages on the hand, no signs of brokenness. Nothing.

He shoved the panic away.

When he turned his head to the other side, the young girl quickly turned her head away as she heard the strangled cry from his throat.

His right arm was gone.


	3. Scene Three: The Death of Confidence

Note: This is probably NOT going to be medically correct--I'm warning you now. Just go along with it, because I have no head at all for science. :) Thanks for your reviews!

**Scene Three: The Death of Confidence**

_Pride and humiliation hand in hand  
Walked with them through the world where'er they went;  
Trampled and beaten were they as the sand,  
And yet unshaken as the continent.  
_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* * *

The old healer was rattling off what was wrong with him as the red-haired girl sat in the corner of the room, looking red and shame-faced. She had gone to get the old healer because she was too afraid to tell the broken ranger all of his other injuries. The old woman had scolded her fiercely. Through his numbness he had heard them outside in the hall.

"You are a foolish child, Soredamors! I should have known that this would be too much for you. We _never_ leave someone like that alone. _Never_."

The said Soredamors had followed the old woman back into his room and had sat down glumly in the chair, refusing to look at him.

The woman talked in a raspy, harsh voice. "Your left foot's broken and the right one's sprained, but those'll mend easy. Several broken ribs, a dislocated hip and shoulder, a sprained back…those will be fine. However," she drew up a chair to sit at his bedside.

"…Your hand. Its probably feeling numb and useless right now…we are not quite as sure as we'd like to be about what happened to it. Some of it may come back, but it's very uncertain whether you'll regain full control. And, we…" she paused, relieving her voice of it's terribly matter of fact tone. "We tried to save your arm. But it was too far gone. I am sorry. You look as though you are a fighting man."

_Was,_ thought Strider in the midst of his fear and grief, _I was a fighting man_.

"Soredamors is here if you need anything," she said briskly and quickly left the room.

He laid back and closed his eyes. Lying here, crippled, being watched over by a little girl…his pride was being mauled as every second went on.

In sleep he found refuge from overly harsh reality. _I don't have arms_, he thought in those few, brief moments before sleep. _My arm is gone and my left one won't ever work again…_

Despair made him smash into his dreams, driven by the forces of grief.

Hours later, he found himself being gently prodded awake by the little Soredamors.

"My lord, the lady Healer says you must eat," said the child in soft tones, motioning to a bowl of gruel on his bedside table.

He tried to move his remaining arm. Oh, the gods would have admired his determination to make his arm move. Yet, after half an hour, his fingers had not even twitched.

"The lady healer said that it would be long before you regained control of your other arm," said Soredamors quietly, mustering up the courage to speak to the ranger. She took the bowl of rapidly cooling gruel and placed it in her lap. "We are short of healers, so I am to help you, my lord."

It was then he understood. And it was also then that he watched that brave, wonderful inner pride he had shudder and fall down into tiny, irreplaceable pieces as he let himself be spoon-fed by a little girl..

* * *

"Eowyn," sighed Eomer, "Theodred said that he saw you in the training room this morning with my sword again."

The lady Eowyn did not move from the window seat where she was reading.

"I apologize for taking your sword, Eomer, but I could not find my own and you were sleeping," she said sincerely.

Eomer gave another heartfelt sigh. "I would not care, Eowyn, except that apparently Grima overheard Theodred joking about it to me this afternoon."

It was at this that Eowyn felt the first stirrings of alarm within her heart. She put the book down abruptly. "And…?"

"And Grima told Uncle, who wants you to do as Grima advises."

Eowyn stood up and stepped towards her brother. "What does Grima want me to do? I will not sit and sew all day!" she snapped, turning away, furious with herself for letting herself be caught.

"No, sister…he wants you to go work in the healing wing instead of sneaking down to the training rooms. I think it will be good for you, honestly."

"I will not go," said Eowyn stubbornly, sitting down once more.

"They are short of healers, Eowyn, they are in need of any spare set of hands. You have duty, you know."

"I know of duty, Eomer…" she said quietly, and after long moments she said, "I will do it."

"Then go to Gildern, the lady healer, tomorrow morning," replied Eomer with traces of sympathy in his voice. "I am sorry, Eowyn."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she said, her eyes catching a familiar black-clothed figure skulking about the courtyard outside through the window.


	4. Scene Four: A Lesson in Staring

**Scene Four: A Lesson in Staring**

_Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known._

Carl Sagan

* * *

It was over a month later before Eowyn started in the healing wing. First had been the two weeks of trying to convince Theoden, then Theodred had asked her to go to Dol Amroth with him with the caravans…it had been some time.

But now she was here.

The old lady healer, the head of the healing ward, sighed so grievously it made Eowyn's eyes widen a bit.

"It's good to have help, I suppose…we are always so short on healers," she shook her head, and then looked Eowyn up and down.

"You'll do," she said.

Eowyn paused awkwardly. "…What would you have me do?"

"For now…hmmm…you do not know much of healing, do you?" Eowyn shook her head.

The old lady healer turned her head and rasped out, "Soredamors! _Soredamors!_"

A young girl came stumbling out of a room quickly, her wry, red hair everywhere.

"Yes, Lady Hothien?" she panted.

"My lady, this is Soredamors," said Hothien, and the red-haired child bowed. "She knows much of what goes on here…you will stick with her until you learn the basics. Soredamors," she said sternly, "I want you to serve the midday meal to all of the patients now. Feed the ones that need to be fed and make sure those that can feed themselves eat. Shoo." Hothien disappeared into another room.

Soredamors looked up at the lady, and Eowyn frowned.

"Do you feed them all by yourself, usually?" she asked.

Soredamors shook her head. "No, the lady healer and I do it together…but now that you're here…" the red-head trailed off. She motioned quickly for her lady to follow, and quickly went down a small flight of stairs down the end of the corridor to the kitchens. There was a large pot of some sort of soup.

Soredamors dumped a myriad of wooden spoons in the front pocket of her apron, then hefted up a large stack of wooden bowls as well. She jerked her head towards the soup pot.

"Can you carry that, lady?" she asked.

Eowyn nodded, and took the handle of the large pot. She lifted it smoothly off the fire and looked to Soredamors. The little girl gave a hint of a smile.

They treaded back up the stairs. Soredamors went to the first door, and Eowyn sat the pot down by the door. The red-head ladled some of the stew into the bowl, laid a wooden spoon there as well and handed it to Eowyn.

"Say hello, be nice, give him the soup and _don't stare_," she whispered to the shieldmaiden, "they hate that more than anything."

Eowyn cradled the bowl in one hand and softly opened the door. She stepped into the room, and was instantly greeted by a middle aged woman covered in oozing sores.

Eowyn was not a squeamish woman by any means. Yet, it would have been hard for anyone to conceal the shock at seeing the state of this woman—the sores on her face pussed and seemed to have open mouths of grotesqueness.

"G-good day, lady," Eowyn said quickly, setting down the soup on the bedside table, "I have brought your soup for the day."

"Thank you," said the woman with a smile, sitting up in bed. She quickly took the soup and began to eat. Eowyn bowed and quickly walked out of the room. Soredamors had served a couple other patients. The two worked their way down the hall until they got to the last door. Eowyn filled a bowl of soup and laid her hand on the door knob when Soredamors whispered quickly, "Lady, no, no!"

Eowyn paused. "What is wrong?"

"Lady…" said Soredamors, choosing her words carefully, "…there is a man in there who is very…hurt. He cannot feed himself. I have fed him every day for a little over a month now...but its hurts him when I feed him. Do you understand?"

When Eowyn opened her mouth to speak, Soredamors quietly interrupted her. "I think, my lady, with all due respect, that it would hurt him more to be fed by a lovely lady, such as you, instead of a girl…like me." The girl's eyes pleaded for her to take no offense as she softly opened the door and walked into the room with a cheery, "Hello, milord."

The voice that answered her made Eowyn stop in her tracks. She peered through the crack in the door, trying to not let herself be seen. The man lying in bed was dark and strong-looking…and she was instantly taken in by the bright gray eyes. She stared at his face, praying silently he would not see her.

It was only a few moments later when she realized he was missing his arm. A few moments later she saw the brightness of his eyes dim as Soredamors held a spoonful of soup to his lips, and he grudgingly drank. And it was a few moments later when he looked up to the door and saw her pale, fine face staring at him that the brightness of his eyes completely disappeared.


	5. Scene Five: Of Letters and Ladies

Scene Five: Of Letters and Ladies

About a week after Eowyn had come to work at the houses, Soredamors became very sick. The weather had gotten colder, and the young girl coughed and coughed into all hours of the night.

On the first day Soredamors was gone, Eowyn was given her duties. After hours of scrubbing soaked (with what? Eowyn did not want to know) bed sheets with harsh lye soap, Hothien informed her she should now feed the patients.

Eowyn delivered soup to each one with a heavy heart, knowing at the end of the line would be the handsome man who was crippled. The man she had stared at so hard on her first day of work.

She'd had to feed the woman with the sores today—the poor thing's illness had taken a tragic turn for the worst. She delivered bowl after bowl of chicken broth until she got to the last door. The shield maiden braced herself, poured the last of the broth into the last of the bowls and took the last wooden spoon she had brought up: these were her weapons, she told herself, against the tide of shame.

Eowyn opened the door and was eye-to-eye with the man almost instantly—his eyes were piercing, and the dimness in them made her heart hurt.

"Sir," she said, "I have brought your meal."

"Thank you," he said, diverting his eyes from hers as he tried to wiggle his way up into a better sitting position, "but where is the young healer?"

"Soredamors has fallen ill," said she, putting the bowl down on the bedside table and helping him sit all the way up, "and I have come to take her place. My name is Eowyn. You are?"

"I am called Strider," he said. She drew a chair to his bedside and took up the broth. Slowly, she dipped the spoon into the liquid and carefully held it up to his mouth. He parted his wind-chapped lips and spoonful by spoonful, she fed him the most of the bowl.

It hurt. It hurt _her_ to have to do this thing to a man who looked as though he was imprisoned in his bed. And she knew it was just as Soredamors had said—Strider would not meet her eyes, not even once during the feeding.

When it was done, she picked up her bowl and asked him if there was anything else she could do for him. He shook his head, and then paused.

"My lady…you have done much for me today, but…there is a lady," he said slowly, "a woman of Elven birth who was expecting me at her home in these past weeks. She is worried, I am sure, and does not know of my…condition."

Eowyn nodded immediately. "Of course, milord. What is this lady's name, and where would I tell a messenger to go?"

At this moment, Eowyn witnessed the brightness in his eyes return, just for a moment as he said her name.

"She is Arwen Undomiel, the Evenstar of the Elves. She resides in Rivendell," he said, smiling to himself.

Eowyn did not need to put a lot of thought into figuring out that this lady was more than just an Elf to him. She bowed to the broken man. A smile awoke in her heart—she could do something to repair the damage in his heart, if not in his body.

"I would be more than happy to, my lord," she said, and exited.

Strider sat in long moments of quiet thought after the lady had left. He had recognized her instantly—she was the one who had stared at him so through the crack in the door. She was both beautiful and cold, yet her hands were as strong as any man's. Seeing her had made him think of Arwen.

What would his Elven lady think of him? Of course, he reassured himself, their love was stronger than him. Their love was stronger than his arms, stronger than the harshest wind, the raging sea. She would still love him.

_She has to_, he thought desperately as he looked out the window to see a cloudy, gray sky.

She has to.

* * *

Eowyn sent the letter off with a messenger the next day and returned to her duties in the houses. She spent the morning cleaning the plagued woman's sores, which was long, careful, and painful work for the afflicted. Eowyn learned that her name was Alaiwen. She would forever remember this woman's endurance—not once did she even show the slightest hint of pain. The rest of the day was spent, yet again, cleaning bed sheets.

When Hothien informed her it was time for the evening meal, Eowyn accepted the job gratefully. Again she went from room to room, dreading when she would have to feed Strider.

They repeated the same process as before, and they did this every day for a week, until the healer child was better. Then it was Soredamors who fed Aragorn instead, and Eowyn almost missed their conversation.

Until, of course, the lady arrived.

She was Elven, perhaps the most beautiful Elf Eowyn had ever been fortunate enough to see. Tall, willowy, dark of hair and bright of eye, she did not move, she flowed down from her horse and up the stairs of Edoras, and, eventually, to the Healing Wing.

Hothien was busy, so it was Soredamors who greeted the Elf lady while Eowyn worked at scrubbing a bedsheet. The door was open and she overheard their conversation.

"My lady," said the little red-head nicely, "welcome to the healing wing. Pray tell whom I may help you find?"

There was a long, awkward pause. Then, a voice, frigid as ice.

"A child?" it admonished quietly.

"Yes, milady," answered Soredamors, as though this happened all the time. "Who may I help you find?" she repeated.

The dark head shook. "A man…his name is Aragorn. He is…injured, gravely."

"Oh!" exclaimed the girl-healer after a moment's recognition, "You mean the man without the arm."

She said this a little too loudly as younger children do with embarrassing information. The Elf lady's eyes widened considerably.

"Crippled? I…"

"Come this way," chirped Soredamors, leading her down the hall to the last door. Eowyn put down her washing and followed. When the two reached the door, the Elf practically pushed the little healer out of the way, throwing the door open and practically dashing inside. Soredamors shut the door quickly behind her, looking a bit put off. Eowyn came and stood by her. They spoke no words. They had bonded somewhat in their daily activities together.

The Elf was in that room for perhaps an hour, and Eowyn and Soredamors did not stir from that spot. Muffled voices, arguing voices, perhaps? You could cut the tension in the air with a knife. Something dark was pulling at them from inside that little room.

The Elf came out of the room all a flutter, tears streaming down her cheeks. She turned her head and cried something out in Elvish towards him, and then tore off down the hall and out of Edoras.

It was not hard for them to deduce what happened.

For it was the next day that the cripple stopped eating.


End file.
